On top of the mountain ridge where trees and grasses give up

  climbing
Canine-like rocks, sitting high and low
Crushing the wind into small pieces
Something swiftly passes behind the rocks.
A moment later, it exposes itself gradually
A long, furry tail, a pointed face
Ah! That is a fox
At a distance, literally within a stone's throw.

But, his gait is so composed!
His motionless eyes are calm like pooled waters
Even when my eye made momentary contact with his.
Would that composed posture be faith or by instinct? 
I wonder. 

On top of the mountain ridge
where Indians hold the coming of age caused the phantom's flame
He must have watched them with burning flames in his eyes
And now, there being no more of his wild eyebeams
No more loitering gait that kept certain distance.

All of sudden, the distance between me and the fox shortens
But I can not fathom his mind a bit.

Tonight, when the sun burst half of its body to open a crimson sky
I wonder if he will draw some flame into his eyes.

I surreptitiously walk away
Where he can not see me.